


legends

by snickerdoobles



Series: Astrid Shepard [1]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: (spoilers mostly wrex does the murder), Origin Story, Other, canon adjacent, cause im a messy binch who lives for revision, in that the canon is mostly observed but sometimes? i swerve, tags will be updated as the fic progresses, teen and up cause Language and Sometimes Somebody Will Do A Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snickerdoobles/pseuds/snickerdoobles
Summary: They have always been touched by fate, even if sometimes they feel cursed by the universe. They were always destined to be legends, even if they lost a few steps along the way.





	1. family

_ 23rd of Runka, 1890: Desolation of Kalross, Southern Tuchanka _

 

His father is late.

 

Calling a Crush in the family Hollow is standard, especially when you’ve got a quarrel that could possibly end in bloodshed. If the Crush doesn’t sort out your issues, meeting in Hollows ensured that the fighting didn’t start right away. Nobody fought in the Hollows. Nobody. So Crushes usually happened in Hollows. Say your piece, hoped it calmed the blood of your opponent, and if it didn’t, you had time to prepare for a fight.

 

Yeah, calling a Crush in a Hollow is completely normal. Being late to your own Crush?  _ That  _ isn’t.

 

He fiddles with the dagger strapped to his thigh. He’d made it himself, almost 150 years ago, right after his Rite. He’d ripped a fang from the still-dripping jaws of the corpse of a Thresher Maw, his blood had sung with pride as he’d presented it to the Urdnot shaman, and he’d burned all his drinking money for the week on tools to fashion it into the blade at his side today. It was the only weapon allowed in the Hollows; the laws allowed him a simple handheld weapon for defending himself against any wildlife that might try to take a swipe at him.

 

Most animals in the area were small enough he could take in hand-to-hand. The biggest thing to worry about was Kalross, but she was a legend. His mother, gods grant her victorious hunts in the afterlife, taught him to never seek out legends. And he’s fairly sure he can’t take the Mother of all Maws with a knife, even if she deigned him worthy of her wrath.  

 

He wishes he could believe he brought the knife for protection against the animals. He wishes he could convince himself that he didn’t need it for protection against his father.

 

‘He’s late,’ rumbles Tharnun Larx, scratching his neck. ‘Fuckin’ peculiar.’

 

He waves a hand in reply. ‘He’ll come.’

 

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ His second shifts his weight between his feet, shuffling nervously through the sand. ‘Why the fuck are you here? Your old man’s got a crest harder than diamonds. No way you’re getting through that thick-ass skull of his. Better to just kill him.’

 

A sigh escapes his lips. ‘S’not about Jarrod. S’bout the clans that answer to him.’ He wishes Larx hadn’t started scratching, now  _ his  _ neck is itching, and he’s not sure if it’s a piece of grit stuck under his scales or a placebo response. ‘I was a pup when the turians put down Clan Raghuk for their uprising, but I still remember it. If the Clans keep walking in the footsteps of Jarrod, we’ll end up like them. Not even a Hollow for our bones, just ash and ghosts.’

 

‘And talking to Jarrod will just magically solve everything.’

 

‘Nah, but it’s a start. I talk to him today, maybe I get a chance to talk to his people tomorrow. I kill him today, they sing for my death, and we all die as animals.’

 

Larx grunts. ‘Mm. Or he kills us today, and nothing changes.’

 

Urdnot Wrex’s laugh booms out from his chest, startling sunhawks from their perches on the pitted, sand-stained walls, his voice an echo of the ancestors whose bones lay at rest here. ‘Or he listens for once in his sorry life. And  _ everything  _ changes.’

  
  


______________________________________________

  
  
  


_ Fourth of Martis, 2083: Athamestra, Thessia _

 

She has lost her child. Again.

 

Goddess grant her patience, she turned her back for ten minutes.  _ Ten minutes _ . And her daughter has somehow vanished from this plane of existence, leaving nothing behind but a mess in the kitchen and a wide-open front door. She closes the door in question behind her, shading her eyes from the mid-morning sun as she glances up and down the street. Where in the name of the Priestesses has she gone? The library? The mall? Not the river, surely. It’s unusually cold out for swimming today. 

 

She starts with the library. The librarian is thrilled to see her (ah! Matriarch! How pleasant to see you once again) and confused (is your daughter unwell? She usually accompanies you when you visit). She thanks the librarian, assures them she will pass on their goodwill to her daughter, and tries not to run at an undignified pace as she leaves.

 

When she arrives at the mall, her fear mounts. Her daughter has a track record of escaping her watchful eyes here. If she approaches security, she knows they will help find her daughter, but it will be a matter of time before another tabloid picks up another story of her pureblood daughter running amok. 

 

She closes her eyes. Centers herself. Breathes. 

 

The mall is her last course of action, she decides, wheeling about and heading for the river. If she does not find her daughter within the hour, she will check the mall.

 

The riverfront, to her dismay, is completely abandoned, apart from an aged salarian feeding birds with their bondmate. She nods gracefully to them, smothering her panic beneath a stone mask as she asks them if they were enjoying their solitude. The salarian smiles an odd smile and replies, ‘Yes, we’ve had the river to ourselves all morning! Such a rare occasion, it usually bustles with activity by now.’ The asari glares with barely contained contempt, and remains silent as their partner chatters on about how there had been no children this morning to scare off the birds. 

 

She departs, hoping her departure doesn’t seem too hasty or rude. The mall, then. Her daughter was at the mall. She steels herself, trying not to wonder which of the mall’s security team will leak the story to the tabloids, trying not to break into a run as she passes the park--

 

The park. Where she can see a small figure hunched over an even smaller pile of dirt.

 

Something rolls over in her heart, and she can suddenly breathe much easier as she approaches the figure. Goddess be thanked, there she is, her knees sodden with morning dew and her hands coated in mud as she digs. ‘Little Wing,’ she breathes, thankful that her voice does not catch on her daughter’s nickname. ‘Little Wing, what do you think you’re doing?’

 

The small asari jumps, her large blue eyes flashing up to her mother, flooded with guilt. ‘I-I was looking for ruins.’

 

‘My dear, the only ruins I see here are the piles of ruined grass you’ve just dug up.’ She kneels beside her daughter, ignoring the squelch of mud that is sure to stain the yellow material of her dress. A half-eaten sandwich lays on a napkin next to the destruction wrought by her daughter’s hands. _A full_ _expedition_ , she thinks wryly, _complete with rations_. ‘There are no ruins in Athamestra. Only the temple of Athame, and that’s almost twenty miles from here.’

 

Her daughter’s brow furrows in thought, her nose scrunching up as a creeping realization spreads across her face. ‘I’m in a lot of trouble, aren’t I?’

 

Lady Benezia T’soni gathers her daughter to her chest, chuckling softly. ‘Oh, Liara. You are in so much trouble.’

  
  


______________________________________________

  
  
  


_ April 11th, 2154: Little Lost Sheep Orphanage, Baltimore _

 

It is late at night when he hears the shrill cry of a newborn.

 

The orphanage is overflowing. After the explosion at the refinery last month, the number of children under his care has doubled, almost tripled. They were almost at capacity.  _ And now I have one more mouth to feed _ , he thinks darkly as he throws on a bathrobe, stuffs his feet into slippers, and trudges down the stairs, flicking the hallway light on and unbolting the front door.

 

Sure enough, there’s a wailing bundle on the doorstep. In the rain, no less. The nerve of some people, leaving a child out in this rain without so much as ringing the doorbell. Sighing, he bends down and scoops up the infant, only barely catching the note that slips from the blanket. The bulk of the note is scrawled, empty excuses, blurred together by raindrops. He’s seen what feels like a thousand notes that read just like this one. Sorry, I can’t feed her. Sorry, I can’t clothe her. Sorry, I don’t want her. 

 

The infant squirms in his arms, her shrieking dipping down to a mild whimper as her tiny limbs flail against his chest. He brushes back her hair, bright auburn against her fawn brown skin, and her whimpers intensify at the touch. ‘Well, now. Let’s get you inside.’

 

Rachel is waiting on the bottom step of the stairs. ‘Another one from the refinery accident?’

 

He shrugs carefully, trying not to jostle the infant in his arms. ‘Who knows? Possible. Note’s got a lot of crap about not being able to look after her. Could be the parent’s job went up in smoke after the explosion.’

 

She snorts. ‘That’s what government assistance is for.’ Her tone softens, her eyes flick nervously. ‘You, uh, got enough room for her? I...could arrange for a place to stay. I got...folks. In, uh, Philly.’

 

‘No,’ he says abruptly. ‘You don’t. Don’t give me that crap, Rachel, I’m not about to turn any of you out on the streets because I got a new kid.’ He can see her shoulders slump, ever so slightly. Every time a new kid comes to the orphanage these days, she offers to leave so he’ll have more room for them. She’s the oldest, she argues. The oldest, the toughest, the strongest.  _ Nobody’s going to adopt me _ , she says.  _ I may as well leave and make room for someone who needs the shelter more than I do.  _

 

‘But I-’

 

‘Rachel, I need you here,’ he says, holding the infant out to her. And he means it. Rachel’s good with the younger kids, she’s got an almost unending well of patience, and she’s a damn sight better than he is at cooking things. Not to mention, she’s great at calming down crying babies. The newest addition to the orphanage has finally settled down in her arms, her whimpers subsiding as she waves a hand vaguely. 

 

A hesitant smile graces her face as she cradles the infant. ‘I...ok. I’ll stick around a bit longer. But you are seriously close to capacity here.’

 

He nods, then shakes his head. ‘Let me worry about that. Can you find her a place to sleep for tonight? I’ve got to fill out some paperwork.’

 

The baby gurgles happily as she nods. ‘Yeah. Oh, hey, what’s her name? Does the note say?’

 

He flips it over, peering at the sodden note. ‘Looks like...Astrid. No last name, I’ll give her mine.’

 

She scrunches her face at him. ‘You always do that. You lack  _ imagination _ .’

 

Curtis Shepard stifles a laugh as he climbs the stairs to his office. ‘Ah, come on. Astrid Shepard has a ring to it. I’m sure it’ll do her just fine.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the krogan month is pulled out of my ass, runka means absolutely nothing. but martis is the greek word for march! themoreyouknow.gif
> 
> i just had to work in that benezia's dress is yellow because that line always like...cracks me up? liara's just like 'omg i loved my mom she wore yellow all the time!! :) !!' and shepard's just like trying to resolve that image in her head with the scary lady with the kickin' rack who threw her against a wall.
> 
> anyways thanks for reading i'll probs keep going with this


	2. storytimes

_ October 27th, 2156: Vancouver, British Columbia _

 

It’s been a long day, and she can hardly keep her eyes open, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t read a bedtime story to her son.

 

He babbles in the way that only a five year old desperately trying to stay awake can. ‘Look mama! There at that picture! That dragon’s blue, like Daddy’s armor. Is Daddy home yet? Can I stay up until he tucks me in?’

 

‘Yep, that’s a dragon,’ she responds sleepily, automatically turning the page.

 

‘Is dragons real, Momma?’ His dark eyes flash towards her, curiosity warring with a strange concern, and have only the slightest hint of sleepiness in their umber depths. ‘I’ve never seen dragons at the zoo. Could they keep dragons at the zoo, or would they eat people and fly away?’

 

‘No, baby, dragons aren’t real.’ She pauses, her tired brain skipping a few steps, then catching up. ‘Well. Actually, they may be real on other planets, but they’re not real here on Earth. They certainly weren’t real when this book was written. You certainly don’t have to worry about being eaten by a dragon.’ 

 

‘But wizards is real,’ he says with absolute confidence, tapping a picture of a gnarled old man, brandishing a staff and shooting sparks from his hands. ‘Wizards is real. Is Daddy a wizard too? Can Daddy do magic?’

 

She frowns, trying to parse the absurdity of the question and translate it from a child’s point of view. Did he mean that the wizard looked like her husband? No, the wizard in the picture was much older than Niko, with darker skin and lighter hair. Was it a question born of her son’s unfamiliarity with his father? Does Niko’s military service paint a strange picture of him in her son’s mind? Perhaps, but that answer felt wrong to her as well. 

 

She glances at the tiny wizard’s robe hanging in the closet, ready for Halloween festivities this weekend. ‘No, no baby. Wizards aren’t real. Daddy definitely isn’t a wizard.’ 

 

‘So Daddy can’t do magic.’

 

‘No, baby,’ she says slowly, her frown deepening. ‘Daddy can’t do magic. He’s really good with machines and tech, and sometimes that may  _ seem  _ like magic. But Daddy can’t do magic.’

 

‘Oh. Okay, Momma. Can you keep reading?’ 

 

‘Sure, baby.’ She continues with the story, keeping a wary eye on her son. He usually asks questions at all times of the day and night, but these seem...more serious. After she broke the news that wizards weren’t real, he seemed crestfallen, glancing sadly at his hands. And the usual slew of questions has abated in favor of quietly studying the pages of the storybook perched on her lap. Does he think he could do magic? Has she unintentionally broken her son’s imagination? ‘Baby? You feeling okay?’

 

‘Yeah! Yeah, but...Momma? If wizards isn’t real...what am I?’

 

She blinks, her confusion tripling. Surely she misheard him. Her tired brain is making a mountain out of the molehill of her son’s innocent questions. ‘Baby, I’m not sure what you mean.’ She turns another page, prepares to launch into the knight’s daring rescue of the damsel in distress--

 

\--and screams as blue fire sparks from Kaidan Alenko’s pudgy fists, swirling around his stubby, still baby-fat fingers. His eyes are confused and scared as he whispers, ‘ _ What am I _ ?’

  
  


______________________________________________

  
  
  


_ June 15th, 2163: Baltimore County Public Library _

 

They’re short-handed today. (It’s Wednesday. Of course they’re short-handed. It’s Program Day.) Washburn had asked him to cover for the storyteller. He’d adamantly refused. He was absolute garbage at reading aloud, and he was terrible with kids. Samona had stepped up in his place, thank Christ.

 

He’s just about ready to collapse into his chair and listen to the drone of her voice over in the kid’s section when a small dark face peers over the counter at him. ‘Hey, kiddo,’ he says, forcing his tone into something brighter and his thoughts away from the cataloging he could be doing right now. ‘What can I help you with?’

 

‘I wanna get on a computer,’ she says, brushing bright red hair away from her eyes.

 

‘Ok, gimme a second to fish out a pass for you. How old are you?’

 

Her eyes dart away. Oh boy. Here we go. ‘Thirteen.’

 

He suppresses an urge to roll his eyes. ‘Mighty small for a thirteen year old. You got a library card, miss…?’

 

‘Astrid,’ she manages. ‘I’m. My growth’s been stunted. Too much coffee, you know? Not enough greens. My dad--’

 

‘Kiddo,’ he says wearily. ‘You can’t get on a computer without your parent sitting next to you. Or signing the computer sheet for you. If you can’t swing that, go listen to the storyteller. I hear they’re telling some asari fairy tales today, that’s exciting. Alien junk.’ He lifts an eyebrow conspiratorially and leans closer to her, throwing up a hand to his mouth in a universal just-between-us gesture. ‘And I have it on good authority that the snack is Otter Pops today.’

 

She groans, her hair falling across her eyes once again. ‘Almost had you.’

 

‘Nah, kid, not even close. Grow a bit taller, then maybe you can trick the volunteers. But us librarians have a six sense.’

 

Her face scrunches up as she glances over her shoulder at the kid’s section. ‘I don’t gotta go back there, do I? Those are baby stories. For babies.’

 

He throws his arms wide in a grand, sweeping gesture. ‘The library is your oyster, kiddo. Except the computers. Those are not your oyster.’ A thought occurs to him. ‘Hey, you like comics?’

 

Astrid leans against the counter, her frown turning from put-upon to quizzical. ‘What, like the funnies in the paper? Yeah, I guess, but I like cartoons better. And video games.’

 

‘Nah, kid, like graphic novels. Wait here a second.’ He waves a volunteer over to watch the desk, then scurries to the back, making a beeline for the cataloging desk. He edges past Samona’s tower of new kid’s books (god, they’re all so far behind, summer reading program season is the  _ worst _ ) and sifts through his stack of new arrivals. After selecting a title, he scoops up the barcode sheet and stamps, almost tripping over himself as he runs back to the front.

 

She’s still there, her arms crossed on the counter and her chin resting on her arms. ‘That’s a really big book,’ she says, her tone somewhat worried. 

 

‘Graphic novels read quicker than print books,’ he replies, opening the card catalog on his computer. ‘Go grab that stool over there and come behind the desk.’ When she’s situated next to him, only slightly wobbly on the rolling stool, he opens the book he’s brought from the back. ‘Wanna help me catalog this?’

 

‘Yeah!’

 

‘Ok, we start by finding the ISBN number on the second page…’

 

When the storyteller finally lets out and the crowd of attendees are happily munching away at their Otter Pops, they’re finalizing the MARC record for the new book. Astrid stares intently at the screen of his terminal, watching the newly minted record load in. ‘So...what is Bone about?’

 

‘You tell me,’ he laughs, handing her the heavy volume. ‘You’re the one who wrote the summary in the record.’

 

She squints at the back cover. ‘I just copied it from the Amazon webpage. I didn’t actually read it,’ she admits.

 

‘You have the spirit of a true librarian,’ he intones gravely, eliciting a giggle from her. The first laugh he’s gotten out of her all day. Hell, maybe he’s better with kids than he thought. ‘Ok, kiddo, go grab your library card. We gotta get this checked out to you if you’re going to tell me what Bone’s about.’ She jumps from the stool and scampers off, hugging the book tightly to her chest. Yeah. Maybe he’s good with kids after all.

  
  


______________________________________________

  
  
  


_ Day 243 of Year 2167, Raaya of the Migrant Fleet _

 

The stories about the sunsets are her favorite to hear about. 

 

‘The entire sky turns purple, red, orange. If there are clouds, it looks like the sky is aflame. If not, it fades to the deepest, darkest black, sprinkled with the stars of a thousand systems. You can even see the Veil during the summer, from where our family’s ancestors lived.’ 

 

Mama’s voice washes over her, threatening to drag her down into the realm of dreams, but there are questions burning bright as stars in her mind. ‘Have you seen the sunsets?’ 

 

Her mother abandons her lump of slagged components she is salvaging wires from, laughs gently, and scoops her into a hug. ‘No, little starplum. None of us have seen a sunset on Rannoch. Nobody alive has been there in centuries.’ 

 

She wrinkles her nose at the nickname, then cocks her head thoughtfully. ‘I bet the geth have seen sunsets.’

 

Her father splutters and coughs. ‘I-The geth-’

 

‘The geth aren’t alive, sweet girl,’ her mother says calmly, her fingers brushing gently against her shoulders, checking the joints of her suit for any wear or tears in the seals. ‘They’re artificial intelligence.’

 

‘Arto-artafish-’

 

‘Artificial. It means created by people, beings. Not something that happens naturally, like evolution.’

 

Another question shimmers in her mind, flickering brightly at the mention of geth. ‘Amari says the geth tried to kill us because they got smart. Why would killing us be smart?’

 

Her father responds, not looking up from the datapad he is fiddling with. ‘Because the geth hate organics. It’s just how it is.’

 

‘Why did we make the geth that way? So they could get smart?’

 

Papa snorts. ‘So we could have workers. The geth were drones, mechs used to do the repetitive or dangerous tasks that quarians couldn’t. When they became intelligent, they ceased to be mech labor and were instead slave labor, which we knew they would have objected to. Revolt was imminent, so we acted first.’

 

Mama brushes her hood off her head, inspecting the connections between her helmet and her suit. ‘What your father means,’ her mother said slowly, ‘is that the geth were too smart to be happy with the tasks we gave them. Push would have come to shove, and a lot of people would have gotten hurt, so the government decided to shut the geth down. The geth didn’t like that, and fought back. They chased us off of Rannoch, and we’ve been wandering ever since.’

 

She rolls that around in her mind as her mother put her hood back in place, then straightens as a new question springs into her mind. ‘But...if the geth hate us...how can we go back to Rannoch?’

 

Her parents fall silent. She watches her father fidget nervously in the silence, his hands wringing together in twists and knots. It is her mother who finds the words first. ‘Well...we’d have to find a way to disable the geth living on Rannoch,’ she says carefully.

 

‘Disable?’

 

‘Kill them,’ her father says, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

 

‘Rael!’

 

‘There’s not another way, Chatika! It’s not as if we have access to their code anymore, they’ve probably changed it over the centuries. We cannot hack them. We must destroy them.’

 

A final question flares to life, bright with hope. ‘If we  _ could  _ hack them, could we change them? Make them...not hate us?’ 

 

He sighs. ‘I don’t know, little one. Maybe. Yes. But we’d have to have access to the base code of a new geth, and that’s impossible. They all live beyond the Veil, where no quarian has gone in centuries. Besides which, during the last years of the war, they learned how to wipe their data cores in the moments before they drop offline.’

 

‘But, if you’re quick, careful, and lucky, you could get the data,’ her mother interjects. ‘Not everything, but some lines of code.’ 

 

‘Quick, careful, and lucky,’ she murmurs. She can be quick. She’s one of the fastest cacha-ball players in her class. And with a mother and father like hers, she is very lucky. She’ll have to work on the careful part, but she has time. She could get a data core from a geth. She  _ will  _ get a data core from a geth.

 

And then, Tali’Zorah nar Raaya will see a sunset.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YER A WIZARD, KAIDAN
> 
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
